


If I Die Young

by Doteruna



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Comforting!Jim, Doctor John Watson, Established Relationship, Hurt Sherlock, M/M, Sick Sherlock, tuberculosis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-11
Updated: 2014-08-11
Packaged: 2018-02-12 17:15:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2118192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doteruna/pseuds/Doteruna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not really sure where I'm going with this story, honestly. Sherlock is diagnosed with extrapulmonary tuberculosis and central nervous system tuberculosis, and John has to put his faith in the best doctors of Britain. Will somehow involve Moriarty. I suggest listening to "If I Die Young" by Michael Henry and Justin Robinett.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If I Die Young

**Author's Note:**

> Listen to this song, it helps set the mood. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QQoFLrZ5C3M

"....John?"

John doesn't turn around immediately, even when Sherlock coughs violently. The man had been coughing for over a week now, without a word of complaint, so John didn't assume it was anything more than a common cold or influenza. Coughing, sweating, and fatigue were all normal, so when Sherlock calls his name he takes his time setting down the teacup. He does turn around, however, when he registers the shaky tone in Sherlock's voice.

"What is it?" he asks as Sherlock coughs again, grabbing a napkin to press against his mouth. When he pulls the paper away, John is shocked to see splatters of red on it. 

"John, I don't feel...too..."

Sherlock doesn't get to finish his sentence before his eyes roll up and he collapses, his long body smacking into the coffee table on its way to the carpet. John drops his cup and rushes to his friend, instantly in doctor mode.

"Sherlock, can you hear me? Sherlock, open your eyes." He rolls the man onto his back and holds open his eyelid, lightly tapping his cheek before grabbing up his phone from the now-shattered remains of the table. 

"Hello, I need an ambulance at 221B Baker Street immediately, my friend collapsed." 

He hangs up and then makes another call, and this person answers just as quickly. John takes a deep breath.

"Mycroft."

############################################################

"Any word yet, Doctor Watson?"

John doesn't even glance up as Mycroft takes the seat next to him, against the hospital wall. His umbrella is propped up between his legs.

"They're doing a lumbar puncture, which means they don't know what's wrong yet. I have my suspicions, though."

Mycroft raises an eyebrow, and John doesn't have to see it to know it's there. 

"Tuberculosis. I don't know what type, yet, but putting all his symptoms together, it fits. Fatigue, sweating, coughing. I didn't notice anything was wrong until he collapsed, I just assumed he had a fever."

Mycroft is silent for several moments, absorbing the information. 

"And how sure are you that my brother has this disease?"

"I'm not sure, not at all, but that's the most likely thing."

#############################################################

"John Watson?"

"Yes, that's me."

"Mr. Holmes is awake, and asking for you."

#############################################################

"Get me out of here, John," Sherlock demands as soon as the nurse closes the door. John sighs and drops into the chair next to the hospital bed, clasping Sherlock's pale hand in his own.

"Sherlock, you know I can't do that." Sherlock looks like a child, pouting, but the expression is ruined as he coughs again, and John hurries to hold a towel to his lips to catch the blood he's hacking up. "You're very sick, sweetheart."

"Don't call me that," Sherlock mutters, sinking back into the thin pillows. John just smiles sadly. "What's wrong with me?"

"The doctors are still running tests--"

"You're my doctor, John, diagnose me. I know you have a theory."

"You won't like it, Sherlock."

Sherlock shuts his mouth. He takes a deep breath.

"That just means that you don't like it at all. Tell me."

"We won't know for sure until the results of the LP come back."

##############################################################

Sherlock is moved to a private hospital as soon as the results come back. Mycroft goes all out, hiring the best doctors and making sure he has a huge room with all sorts of luxuries. Normally a show of emotion that Mycroft would never allow; the fact that he's putting so much effort into this tells John how serious it is. John knows, anyway. He triple-checked the results himself.

Extrapulmonary tuberculosis focused on Sherlock's central nervous system, affecting his spine and brain; tuberculosis meningitis. It's also located in his lungs, causing the breathing problems and blood in his trachea. Sherlock is rapidly getting worse, his body deteriorating despite the antibiotics the doctors are pumping him full of. In the span of three weeks, Sherlock has lost several pounds and his skin has gotten paler, wrapping around his bones. His reactions are slower, both mentally and physically. The infection is attacking his spinal column ruthlessly, ignoring the medicines being pushed into his body. His hair now lies limply against his sweaty forehead, his breathing hollow and wet. 

Mycroft rents a small flat close to the hospital for John, and the short man visits everyday. He's been cleared for 24-hour access, so he stays as long as he can until Sherlock, in an unusual display of affection, commands him in a weak voice to go sleep, get a meal, take care of himself. John always kisses him before he leaves, deeply, lovingly, because even though he doesn't want to believe it, his time with his lover is dwindling. 

###########################################################

John opens the door one day, two and half months in, to see a familiar figure standing next to Sherlock's bed, one hand pressed to his cheek. Moriarty looks up, grins, and goes back to speaking to Sherlock. At first, John moves to call security; he stops when he hears what Jim is saying. 

"Sorry the game is over, love. I wanted it to last so much longer, but I guess these things happen, even to people like us." 

Sherlock looks up at him, his once-brilliantly colored eyes dull and slow, blurred. 

"I would have won," he whispers after a moment. John wants to cry. Jim just smirks and runs his fingers through Sherlock's hair, the other hand shoved in his trouser pocket. 

"Not in a million years, dear," Jim says, kisses Sherlock's forehead, and walks towards the door. He pauses when his shoulder brushes John's. "You were better for him than I could ever have been, Johnny boy. A pity."

#########################################################

The nurses have to sedate John when Sherlock flatlines, the man fighting so furiously to reach his lover even though logic tells him that he's dead. He gets one last kiss to Sherlock's lips before the doctors pull him away. 

#############################################################

John is silent throughout the entire funeral, unable to speak even when Mycroft looks at him. He doesn't cry, though, not even when they lower Sherlock's elegant casket into the ground and shovel cold dirt over it. He remains silent and stoic as the ceremony ends and everyone leaves, Mrs. Hudson patting his shoulder before turning away. He stays there, alone, at the simple black headstone, completely still until he feels someone step next to his left shoulder. 

He lets go, turning and burying his head into Jim's shoulder as he sobs, and the consulting criminal hesitates for a second before wrapping unsure arms around the small body as he is squeezed in a harsh hug. John cries and screams and wails his despair into Jim's expensive suit, but Jim just holds him and smooths his fingers through John's short hair, shushing him gently. 

"I miss him too, John. I miss him too."

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to Hell for this, aren't I.


End file.
